


Home is Where Ever You Are

by clotpoleofthelord (plantainleaf)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fallen Castiel, M/M, Masturbation in Shower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 14:40:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantainleaf/pseuds/clotpoleofthelord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas falls.<br/>He lands in a backyard in Wisconsin, waking up with a pounding in his head and an emptiness in his heart.<br/>His first thought is of Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home is Where Ever You Are

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU to deanhugchester and hubrisandwax for the beta!

Cas falls.

He lands in a backyard in Wisconsin, waking up with a pounding in his head and an emptiness in his heart.

His first thought is of Dean.

As he fell, just before he lost consciousness, he’d heard Dean call out for him in a desperate prayer. But Dean wanted _Castiel_ , the angel, who could heal his brother and protect them from demons and angels and anything else. He didn’t want _Cas_ , the broken-down human with grass-stained knees and a split lip that didn’t seem to want to heal.

So he stands and looks around him, seeing the small, run-down house and the rusting Jeep in the driveway. It’s barely dawn, and in the semi-darkness he can see other houses just in view, their lights blinking on slowly as the morning arrives.

He walks to the house, glancing in the glass doors. There’s old furniture there, haphazardly strewn throughout the living room and kitchen. In one corner he sees a staircase with a ragged rug covering it.

A thick coating of dust covers everything, and on a whim he tries the door knob.

It turns and the door opens.

He hesitates for a moment. This is someone’s home, or at the very least it was at some point. Someone owns this furniture, the pots and pans hanging above the sink, the plastic Statue of Liberty magnet on the refrigerator. Someone’s children played here, with the wooden blocks piled in a corner, and someone’s dog slept in the padded basket under the endtable.

 _But it hasn’t been anyone's home for a long time_ , he thinks, as he reaches the kitchen table. There’s a newspaper there, dated July 21, 1996. It’s folded neatly in front of one of the chairs.

He flicks the light switch and blinks in the bright light. The tap sputters when he turns the handle, then shoots out brownish water which quickly clears. He lets it run for a few moments. He’s thirsty, but he’s human now. He doesn’t know the rules for this.

Finally thirst overwhelms his worries and he cups his hands under the faucet, catching a palmful of water and bringing it to his mouth. It’s cool and sweet and he closes his eyes as his body responds to the influx with a feeling of contentment.

His next goal is food, but he’s pretty sure there won’t be much that’s still edible after almost twenty years.

The need for food doesn’t have the urgency that he’d felt in his thirst, so he puts it aside for a moment and looks around him.

 _This will do_ , he thinks.

\-----

Two hours later, he’s cleaned the dust from the furniture and counters, vacuumed the floor, and cleaned up the toys and newspaper and other evidence of the former inhabitants. He places all the personal items in a box and sets it in a corner, just in case he finds someone to whom they’re meaningful.

He eyes the phone on the kitchen wall for a few moments, hesitating. He knows a few phone numbers for Dean and for Sam and part of him desperately wants to call and find out if they’re all right.

But no.

He has to figure out how to be a human first, so he won’t be a burden if they take him in. _I’ll call them_ , he promises himself. _Soon_.

His next goal is the fridge. He pulls out the long-rotted food, wrinkling his nose at the smells, and tosses it all in a garbage bag, tying it tightly shut. Next he pulls out each shelf and runs it under the tap, reading each bottle of cleaning supplies carefully until he finds one appropriate for plastic under the sink. For this task he finds the trenchcoat is in his way, the sleeves dipping into the water, so he pulls it off and drapes it over a chair. He does the same with the suit jacket and tie, then unbuttons his shirt cuffs and rolls them up to his elbows like he's seen Sam do in the past.

Relief floods him at this, and he realizes his body had become overheated in all the clothes. It's summer after all, and he's only human.

When the shelves and drawers are finished he places them back in the fridge and steps back, admiring his handiwork.

He feels a sense of accomplishment, pride in his work, and he takes a moment to enjoy it. As an angel, he'd healed grievous injuries and destroyed towns. Now his successes are a bit smaller.

He sighs and looks toward the stairs. He's only halfway done.

If he's honest with himself, Castiel knows that he doesn't have to make this place pristine. All he needs right now is a roof over his head as he decides on his next course of action.

But there's a certain satisfaction, he finds, in restoring something to cleanliness. So much of his time has been spent on destruction and trying to fix his own mistakes that it's almost freeing to clean up someone else's mess for a change.

He steels himself for the upstairs.

\-----

There's a long hallway at the top of the stairs, running from one end of the house to the other. Warm morning light flows in from windows at both ends and the carpet is marginally cleaner. He sets down the vacuum and gets to work.

There are five doors, two on one side of the hall, three on the other. All are closed. He puts off opening them until the hallway is pristine, the carpet pale blue again, smudges wiped from the walls, and light sconces dusted thoroughly.

The first door on the right is a bathroom, with a wide tub, sink and toilet. He attacks the tub first, scouring away the mildew and grime until it shines bright white. He does the same to the floor, the toilet and the sink and opens the window to let out the bleach smell.

He pauses a moment at the window. It's small, over the tub, but it faces east and there's golden light spilling in along with a fresh, outdoor scent. He closes his eyes and lets it warm him for a moment, before getting back to work.

He decides to work around the hallway, clockwise, and opens the first door.

It's a master bedroom with a giant bed in the center. The covers are rumpled, as if the occupants have just left for a moment and will be back any second.

 _This is too personal,_ he thinks. _Maybe this is what Dean refers to as personal space_. He backs out, closing the door firmly, and moves on.

The next room is similar, a smaller bed and a box of toys on the far wall and a bookshelf filled with thin, colorful books. He closes this door, too, trying not to wonder what could have happened that would cause a child to leave all his possessions behind.

The next room seems set up for a slightly older child. There are schoolbooks on a desk and thicker novels on the bookshelves. Cas backs out of this one as well. _Perhaps this place isn't right for me_ , he thinks. _Maybe I should move on._

He gives it one more chance, opening the final door.

Inside is a room painted a vibrant green, with floor to ceiling bookshelves and a nearly made bed. There are no personal touches or papers, and he realizes this must be the guest room. _I suppose I am something of a guest,_ he thinks wryly.

There's a closet in this room as well, but most of the clothes are in bags or boxes. Stepping closer, he reads 'FOR GOODWILL' on each one.

He recognizes the name of the store Dean and Sam buy their clothes in and picks up a box, pulling out a rumpled sweater. _These are clothes this family no longer wanted. Perhaps they wouldn't mind if I borrowed them_ , he thinks.

He finds a pair of jeans that looks approximately his size, and a flannel shirt that reminds him of Dean. He finds himself holding them close to his chest for a moment, his heart clenching as he imagines what Dean is doing and wearing at this moment.

To his surprise he feels moisture on his face, and realizes he's crying. He runs a hand across his face and pulls out the three pack of boxers he'd found and heads to the bathroom.

Showering helps. He stands under the warm spray, face upturned, and washes the dirt and sweat off his body while the heat and pressure pounds his sore muscles until they loosen. He examines his borrowed body ( _although,_ he thinks, _I'm alone in it now,_ and he almost sends a prayer for Jimmy's soul to Heaven before remembering there's no one there who'll answer). It's tanned and strong, bruised in some places, with a fine dusting of hair on the arms and legs and chest that thickens at his groin. The water soaks it all, and his bangs drag down into his eyes.

He runs a careful hand across his chest and his stomach, moving down to his thighs. This is the first time he's removed his clothing fully, at least under his own power, and the first time he's showered. It's not at all like the pounding rain of Purgatory, although the mechanics are similar. Nor is it like being plunged into the ocean as he had just before Pestilence. It's warm and soothing and the steam wraps around him like Dean's arms.

His hand brushes his groin and he starts a little as a spark shoots through his abdomen. He does it again, deliberately, and the feeling intensifies. He can feel his cock lengthening, filling, and he knows the mechanics of it but he's nervous for some reason he can't quite explain. This has happened before, at the brothel with Dean and when he'd seen the pornographic film of the pizza man, but he's never been alone and he's never been this entrenched in a human body.

 _I wish Dean were here,_ he thinks, loneliness filling his body alongside the arousal, and he hardens even more as he imagines it. Dean would glance at him, a slow smirk spreading across his face. He'd ask if Cas needed some help there, because it looks like he's got a problem. Maybe he'd step forward at Cas's nod, say _I can help you out with that, show you how it's done_. He'd strip off his clothes, step in the shower behind Cas and place his hands on Cas's thighs. Castiel imagine the touch, tracing it with his own hand as the other one gives in to the instincts of the body Jimmy Novak wore.

He imagines Dean crowding closer until Cas can feel his warm chest against his own shoulders and Dean's hard cock pressing against his lower back. The imaginary hand slides forward, the other pressing against his hipbone, and circles Cas's cock.

 _This is what it would feel like,_ he thinks, gasping, as his own hand speeds up, mimicking the fantasy. _This is how Dean's hands would feel on me._ He groans slightly as the sensations intensify, rising impossibly high, and then lets out a shout as heavy wetness spurts over his hand and waves of pleasure roll through him. He slumps against the wall of the shower, breathing hard, and lets the water rush over him.

By the time he's able to stand and finish washing, the water is beginning to cool. He rinses the shampoo from his hair quickly and turns off the tap, stepping out and pulling a folded towel from the cabinet. As he dries himself he catches a glimpse in the fogged mirror and pauses. _This is me_ , he thinks, _I am that human._

The boxers and shirt fit well, though the jeans are a little loose and slip down to his hips. He resolves to find a belt somewhere and steps out, heading down the stairs and out the front door.

Evening is just about to fall and he sits on the stoop, watching his neighbors return home from their employment. They look at him oddly, sitting in front of the house that had been abandoned for so long, but no one approaches him.

He steps back inside when the stars begin to show and thinks about his next steps. He could stay here, be a human, learn to find a job and buy food and do all the things humans do. He could leave, wandering the country and the world, and try and find a place somewhere else. Or--

Or he could call Dean.

As he watches the people of the neighborhood come home to their loved ones, the longing for Dean and Sam and everything they share intensifies and he finds himself picking up the phone and dialing a number he knows by heart.

It rings, and rings until Dean's gruff voice says, "leave a message," and for the first few seconds after the beep Cas can't speak at all, throat tight at the sound of Dean's voice to function.

Finally he chokes out, "hello, Dean." He's not sure what else to say, but words spill out of him anyway. He tells Dean he's fallen, and he's sorry, and he wanted to learn to be useful before calling but that he couldn't wait. He tells them where he is, and his voice doesn't stop until the tone tells him he's used the entire time of the message.

As he hangs up, he realizes that Dean can't call back, because he didn’t leave a return number.

The next morning passes much like the first. He's been human for a day, and he thinks he might be getting the hang of some of it. He finds a small garden behind the house, overrun with weeds, but with fresh tomatoes and strawberries and green beans, and he picks them and eats them raw while sitting on the ground. He's just dusting himself off to return inside when he hears a familiar roar and he freezes in place.

The noise stops suddenly and he moves forward, suddenly desperate to see if he had just dreamed it, and that's when Dean strides around the corner and slams into him, burying his face in Cas's neck and wrapping both arms around him tightly. "Fuck, Cas," he whispers into Cas's shoulder, "I thought you were dead. I thought--" he holds Cas tighter and Cas reciprocates, arms coming up and around Dean and he wonders how he ever could have thought he could be human anywhere else.

 


End file.
